Hamish
by baconfaced
Summary: "Hamish! John Hamish Watson. Just if you were looking for baby names."
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is my first Sherlock fic, but feel free to critique. I had some friends look this over, but no britpick, so please forgive any weird Americanisms I didn't realize were Americanisms.  
>This takes place over 9 years after Reichenbach.<p>

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><p>On most Sundays John would join Mary and her family for mass and lunch, but after four rather sleepless days of chasing Sherlock around the city, he needed some serious quality time with his armchair. Which is just what he was doing, sitting and sipping the first of what should be many cups of tea while reading the latest commets on his blog, when the doorbell rang.<p>

He sighed. It was half past nine and his day of solitude had barely started. If it was Sherlock with another case, he may have to punch him.

John didn't see anyone through the peephole, which was a relief. He opened the green door, expecting to find a package that hopefully wasn't explosive.

It wasn't a package. It wasn't explosive either.

John gaped. There was a child in his doorway. A child no older than five, much too short to be seen through the peephole. He looked like an elf, with a pointed nose, rosy cheeks, a mop of black hair, and ears that were too big for his face. He wore black pants and a light blue button down that could have been a school uniform, and had a green backpack that appeared to have dinsaurs printed all over it.

"Um... hello," John managed at last. He looked up and down the hallway, but there wasn't a sign of anyone else. But surely the boy was too short for their high doorbell?

"Daddy dropped me off," the child said, as if he knew just what John was thinking. "He said you'll watch me today."

"And who is your father?"

The boy looked at him, startled at being questioned, and then his face scrunched up as if he were concentrating on a difficult problem.

"I don't know his name," he said in a soft voice, after much thought. Then, seeming to forget his sadness, he looked up at John with a bright smile. "Can I come in and color?"

Quite nonplussed, John nodded and moved out of the doorway. The child ran right in and plopped on the floor, pulling a stuffed animal, a box of crayons, and coloring books out of his backpack.

"This is my dragon," he told John, holding up the stuffed animal.

"Hello, dragon," John said. The children who brought stuffed animals with them to the surgery liked it when he talked to their toys. This child, however, looked at John like he was an idiot.

"My dragon isn't real, you know."

"That's good, I wouldn't want him breathing fire in my sitting room."

The child looked bewildered at John for five more seconds, and then gave it up to continue coloring.

"So, what's your name?" John asked.

"Hamish," the boy responded without glancing up.

"That's my middle name," John told him. The child didn't seem to care. "My first name is John."

"I know," the child said, as if annoyed John thought he didn't know everything.

"How old are you, Hamish?"

Hamish held up his left hand, the one he wasn't coloring with, and spread the fingers wide. "Five!"

"What's your last name?"

"Shooler."

John paused. That name sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Do you have a mother?" John asked, hoping to find the boy's guardian and get to the bottom of why he was here.

"Of course." Hamish shot him another odd look.

"And her name?"

"Addy!" Hamish responded, proud to show he at least knew something about his parents.

John sat in armchair and pulled out his phone to text Lestrade. _Do you know an Addy Shooler? _

The reply came in two minutes later. _Never heard of her. Don't even see anything on the registry._

John sighed. That was going to be his next question. _A five year old boy was left on my doorstep. _

The next reply came in much quicker. _Blimey, who'd leave a kid with you?_

_The unnamed father, apparantly. The boy says his name is Hamish Shooler, and his mother's name is Addy._

_No records of a Hamish Shooler either. Is he British?  
><em>

_Sounds like it, though his accent is a bit off. I think he's been moved around a lot._

_Bring him in. It could be that he was dropped off at the wrong flat, but I wouldn't put it past your and Sherlock enemies to try and frame you of child abuduction._

Hamish wasn't happy to have his coloring interupted, but his face lit up when he learned they were going to the police station.

"I have a police car at home!" he said excitedly. "I wish I had brought it! I have a lot of cars!"

John soon learned that Hamish did, in fact, have a lot of toy cars. He spent the entire cab ride to the police station describing each and every one of them in great detail.

When they got to the station John took Hamish's hand and led him up to Lestrade's division. Hamish's joyful mood seemed to leave him in a hurry as they walked along, and by the time they got to Lestrade's office a deep frown was set on his face.

"What have you been doing to him?" Lestrade asked in greeting.

"He was fine a moment ago," John insisted. "Hamish, what's wrong?"

"They aren't wearing uniforms!" he said, glaring at Lestrade's suit as if it had offended him personally.

Hamish cheered up when Lestrade collected his fingerprints, seeming to find the electroic finger scanner fascinating. Though he also demanded Lestrade bring out the old fashioned ink for him to play with, and proceded to cover his coloring books with black fingerprints.

The prints brought up nothing, which was expected. Lestrade looked through reports of missing children from around the country while John made sure Hamish didn't put any prints on the walls. Donovan brought them some sandwiches, biscuits, and milk around noon, which is what they were busy eating when Sherlock burst into the room.

John had rarely seen Sherlock so coolly furious. He swished it, mouth open to start in on Lestrade, when someone cut him off.

"Daddy!" Hamish jumped off the couch he had been sitting on. John had to grab his milk to keep it from spilling, and when he looked up Hamish was in Sherlock's arms.

He wouldn't be surprised if his jaw fell to the floor.

Sherlock glared at John. "Why did you leave the flat?"

John moved his jaw up and down a few times, but no attempts at speech were successful. Luckily Lestrade spoke for him.

"You're Hamish's father?"

"So far so obvious," Sherlock annoyingly muttered.

"Why didn't we know you had a bloody five year-old?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Hamish. "You're four."

"Five next month!" Hamish exclaimed, as if that meant he could claim the age already.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "It was unnecessary to share the information with you."

"It just may be necessary if you get charged with child abandonment!"

"I left him with a perfectly capable minder," Sherlock said.

"And what if I wasn't home?" John asked, finally finding his voice.

"You were," Sherlock said, as if that settled it.

"Daddy!" Hamish started squirming, not pleased with the lack of attention on him. "Come look at my coloring books!"

He dragged Sherlock to the couch and held up the fingerpring-covered books with pride. Sherlock grabbed his hand and quickly examined his fingers between shooting John and Lestrade another glare. "You took his fingerprints?" Sherlock pulled his phone out and started rapidly texting.

"Sorry that we didn't magically realize that he was your son."

"I thought you would have deduced it, from the name and the hair," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone.

John's eyebrows raised. "You named him after me?"

Lestrade ignored that. "Why didn't you stick around and introduce him to John? It would have saved us all this trouble."

"I was in a hurry," he said. "I had to get his mother out of trouble._ Again_."

"Who is the mother?" John asked. He couldn't think of a woman alive who Sherlock had expressed even a hint of interest in.

"Come on, John, think! You were the one who suggested the name to her."

John stared at him blankly while he mentally went through every female acquaintance they had, and if he had ever brought his middle name up to them. And then he remembered making a joke, once, nearly ten years ago, when Sherlock and a Woman were gazing at each other as if he wasn't in the room.

"She's dead."

"What?" Sherlock looked at him, surprised. "Oh, no, she's not. I've faked so many deaths I forget which ones I've told you about."

Hearing Sherlock nonchalantly talk about forgetting to tell him things finally sparked John's anger. His best friend of over ten years, the best man at his wedding, had not bothered to mention that he had a child. Had a child with a woman he had claimed to hate.

A woman whose death he apparently had helped to fake. Much like he had faked his own, just three months later.

It had been a long time, but John suddenly felt his old wounds opening up again. How dare that mad bastard act like this? John was about to tell Sherlock just what sized dick he was, when Sherlock suddenly let his child take his hand and press his fingers in the ink. And then he just had to ask.

"So she liked the name Hamish, did she?"


	2. Chapter 2

_****_AN: I do have some ideas for this story, though school is getting in my way of writing fun stuff. But first, here's some of the moments that led to Hamish's existence.

Still unbeta'ed and just for fun.

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><p><em><strong>3 years after Reichenbach<strong>_

"Mary and I are getting married," John announced.

Sherlock looked up from where he lounged on the couch, somewhat surprised. He had noticed that John had been working up to say something while he was making the tea, but he did not understand why this action would appeal to his flatmate. "Why?"

"I think you may have noticed that I like her quite a lot," John said, a smile gracing his lips. Pleased about the engagement, then. And perhaps glad Sherlock was reacting with confusion instead of something a bit more negative.

"Of course I have." Sherlock was almost insulted. Even if he hadn't observed the obvious infatuation the two had for each other, he had suffered through John's overly complimentary descriptions of the woman that came up in far too often in unrelated conversations. "But why would _you _want to get married?"

"Well, when two people love each other very much..." John started. Sherlock shot him a glare, which made him switch to a serious explanation. "I want to marry her because I want to spend my life with her, and we might start a family."

Sherlock scoffed. "Boring."

"Believe me, Sherlock. Having children is full of its own sort of life-threatening danger."

_**4 years after**_

Sherlock knew the sounds of his own flat, especially since John had taken most of the reasons for unexpected noise with him when he moved out a few weeks ago. It took less than half a second upon waking for him to recognize the sound of calm breathing coming from the inside of his bedroom window. It only took a sniff of the air to figure out who it was.

"Why are you in my flat?" He asked, stretching against his pillows.

"I've come to collect," the voice of the Woman told him. "You owe me a favor."

Sherlock opened his eyes. Irene was leaning against the window sill, her thin arms crossed as she stared at his duvet with an examiner's eye. She was clad in jeans and a lavender sweater far less revealing than her usual attire. Her hair- well, fake hair, she was wearing a well-fitted wig- was in a red bob, and horn-rimmed glasses completed the disguise.

"I do not."

Irene met his gaze and smirked. "So, you think you can come unannounced to my hiding place, three days after your supposed death, demand to know everything about how I communicated with the Moriarty organization, and not have a favor asked of you in return?"

"I believe that was you returning me a favor," Sherlock said, pulling himself into a seated position. "Or do you not remember my interference with your execution?"

"You saved my life, I let you take the information from my phone. We were on equal footing."

He rolled his eyes. But it was logical, since she could have destroyed everything, so he let it go. "And what do you want now?"

"A child."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but otherwise showed no sign of surprise. "You?"

"Oh, don't be on of those idiots who think a strong woman shouldn't desire to be a mother," she said, waving a hand dismissively.

"Why do you want my help?" he asked. "I'm sure there are many men who would _pay_ for the pleasure."

"Of course there are," she said, a slight smile showing her pride of the fact before she stood up straight and continued in a serious, negotiating tone. "But there is the risk that they would develop an interest in the child and later fight for custody, something I do not have to worry about with you. You would also save me the time wasted on having a relationship, or from having to get a permanent address for adoption papers."

"And kidnapping, even from an orphanage, would bring unnecessary attention."

"Yes. Now, aren't you curious as to what a child of yours would be like?"

"Not particularly."

"Oh come on, Mr. Holmes. I read quite a lot "

"And do your cheap romances tell you that men always want to sire children?" Sherlock asked with disdain.

"No, I read the data from your experiments when I stayed in your flat nearly five years ago. I know just how fertile you are."

That certainly surprised him. She must have been very sneaky while he had been musing with his violin, he hadn't noticed that any of his papers had been upset.

"Sherlock," she said, prompting him to meet her gaze. "I promise the child won't be dull."

**5 years after**

_Do you want to meet your son? Let's have dinner._

_**7 years after**_

When Jeannette met John Watson, he chatted her up at a pub, getting her number before returning to his mates and the rugby match they were watching. He was not the worst boyfriend she had ever had, by far, but he certainly had the most memorable excuses for not focusing on their relationship. Really, how could she forget _"I have to cancel our date, my flatmate's been drugged by a dominatrix whose house we went to today"_? None of her subsequent boyfriends (and husband) had such interesting stories, though they all managed to put other things before her, too.

When Jeannette met Renee, she thought she was the answer to her prayers. They met at the school Jeannette worked at, which Renee was considering sending her young son to. She recognized Jeannette's need to go out for coffee and talk, so they did. At first they just commiserated over relationships and the men who had failed them (Jeannette was fresh from divorcing the bastard who cheated on her, and Renee said she had been left to care for her son alone), but over time Jeannette started to see her friend in a different light. She was blonde, thirty-something, and absolutely gorgeous. Of course Renee put her child first, but somehow it never bothered Jeannette, even when they started a romantic relationship. Soon enough she found herself staying over and driving the boy to nursery school so Renee could sleep in in the mornings.

It is a grand understatement to say Jeannette was displeased to come back to Renee's flat on one of these mornings to hear a name she hated coming from her girlfriend's lips.

"Come on, _Sherlock_. I'm bored."

Jeannette froze, still halfway through the door to the flat. She could see down the hallway to the kitchen, where Renee sat in her dressing gown, facing the other way. From the way her beautiful pale legs peeked out, it was doubtful she was wearing anything underneath the gown.

Sherlock _freaking_ Holmes was sitting across the table from her, leaning back and looking disinterested. Jeannette felt his eyes flicker over her and return to Renee, seemingly finding Jeannette's entrance utterly boring.

"If you want me to stay in London so you can see Hamish more often, you have to give me something to do!" Renee entreated, leaning towards him. Jeannette could perfectly picture how the dressing gown would slip to show him more of the beautiful milky skin of Renee's chest.

"You seem to be having fun toying with the boring schoolteacher," Sherlock replied, his eyes going to Jeannette once more. Renee whipped her head around, grabbing at her gown and pulling it closed. She obviously had been unaware of her lover's return.

"Hello, darling," she called out in a voice that was sickeningly sweet compared to the darker, tempting one she had been using with Sherlock.

"Hi," Jeannette responded. She dropped her bag to the floor and joined them in the kitchen.

Renee raised her eyebrows, but Jeannette made no move to leave. After a moment Renee shrugged, as if to say "Oh well, that's the end of that." Jeannette swallowed and felt a stone drop in her stomach. Renee turned back to Sherlock.

"Let me take some of your cases. It's been long enough that no one will recognize me, and anyone still looking wouldn't expect me to start working on the other side of the law."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock responded immediately.

"Well, I need something to keep me occupied," Renee told him. "Need I remind you I came to you to avoid this drama?"

"Things change," he said. "Do remember, Irene, that there still are people I could contact who would be very interested to learn of your whereabouts."

"And I can ensure that you never see your son again," she promised.

The two stared at each other in their impasse for a full two minutes before Sherlock stood and started arranging his scarf. 'I'll try and find something that will keep your interest," he said. Renee- or Irene, apparantly- simply nodded, and he took his leave.

Jeannette looked at the woman who had challenged all her expectations, who had made her think people still cared in this world. Had done all that because it amused her to "toy with a schoolteacher."

"You'll need to pick Hamish up at half 11," Jeannette told her, and then went to pack her bags.


End file.
